Page 7 of The Torment of Two

“I’m fine,” I assure him with a huff. “You sound like Dax now.”

“Dax, God bless his birdbrained soul, knows you better than anyone. If he’s worried, then there’s a need to be worried.”

Dad takes one of my hands that’s crusted in plaster and warms it between his hot ones. “Did you even realize your space heater isn’t on? It’s well below freezing out there.”

My head jerks to the left, and sure enough, the thing isn’t on. Probably explains why I have the sniffles and my fingers are numb.

“I got hot,” I lie, meeting my dad’s stare with a defiant one of my own.

Worry softens his expression and he nods. “Well, I’m pulling rank now. Time to get your crazy butt back inside. Pops made ribs in the crockpot.”

My stomach grumbles again and Dad laughs. I’m not laughing, though. Sometimes I still feel like a small child with massively big emotions that no one else understands. At least when I’m focused on my projects, I can just be for a little while without overanalyzing everything and everyone.

I slide off my stool onto weak legs. A quick look at my watch—a vintage Timex piece from Pops’ dad, my gramps—to learn I’ve spent the better part of eight hours in my shop at the back of our property without food or even a restroom break.

Okay, so sometimes, my dads and Dax have a point.

I obsess a little.

Dad leads the way out of my shop, waiting for me to close it up and lock it. I’m closer to Pops’s height at six-foot-two. Dad, despite being closer to five-foot-six, is definitely the boss in our family. What he lacks in height, he makes up for it in attitude.

“Your hair is getting long, Two,” Dad says as we walk briskly, hurrying to get out of the harsh cold. “Want to go see Aunt T and get a cut?”

I fling my head back, which makes the hair that was drooping into my eyes bounce away for a second before it lands right in the spot where it was.

“Maybe,” I say with a noncommittal grunt. “I’m busy with class all next week and I have to get Cedarwood Mansion done.”

Dad stops right before we reach the back door. He places his warm hands on my cold cheeks, bringing me down so we’re at eye level. “The second it’s done, you’re marching yourself over to her house for a cut. And you’re taking a much-needed break. Your classes will demand a lot of your time and winter break is over.”

I roll my eyes, which makes him smirk.

“I’m serious, Tristan.” He kisses my nose like he used to when I was little. “Love you, kiddo.”

He turns and heads inside while I examine his words. I do believe my dads love me. I feel it down to my soul. Sometimes, though, I can’t help but pick apart the reasons why and how they love me. When did it happen? Was it days, months, or years after they had to take literal option number two over their precious little girl?

My therapist doesn’t know about my feelings.

No one does.

It feels selfish and ungrateful to bring to light my emotions regarding the love of my parents. They did take care of me even if I wasn’t their first choice. I’ve never hurt for a thing and know I fared better than those other kids who started in the same predicament I was in.

Plus, my therapist makes me feel like a child. Technically, she’s a pediatric therapist and I’ve just been grandfathered in, so it’s not her fault. But I don’t have to open up to her. She’d probably just tell my dads and it would hurt them.

I’m not in the business of hurting the two people I love most.

It’s easier if I’m the one doing all the hurting. At least I can handle it. Dad would cry. Pops would do that thing where his jaw works and he swallows hard but otherwise looks like a stone statue. I don’t want that shit.

Inside the house, it smells of barbecue and steamed corn. Pops is pouring glasses of sweet tea, his muscular back turned to us. When I was little, I thought Pops was an actual giant or a lumberjack. He’d pick me up and fly me around the living room while I squealed with delight. Sometimes he’d even let me touch the ceiling. Dad would freak out the whole time, panicking that he’d drop me.

“Hey, Pops,” I say, coming up behind him and resting my head on his shoulder. “Smells good in here.”

He reaches up one of his calloused hands and pats my head. “You know I love an easy dinner that tastes better than anything you can grab in town. How’s Cedarwood?”

I light up at his question. “I worked on all the crown moulding today.” I hold up my plaster-covered fingers for him to inspect. “It’s taken the longest because it’s so intricate, but I’m loving how it’s looking.”

Pops chuckles. “Can’t wait to see when it’s finished. Wash up, Son. You’re not licking sauce off those crusty fingers.”

My sullen mood improves as I get cleaned up and take a seat at the table. Dad regales us with a tale of this woman who asked for a bid to redecorate the front room of her house. Apparently, she’s a hoarder and didn’t mention the piles of bullshit everywhere. Dad said he nearly croaked from horror at the mess, gave her an outlandish bid, and then ran so fast out of there you’d think his ass was on fire.

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